


Naptime

by sheiksleopardthong



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 01:53:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheiksleopardthong/pseuds/sheiksleopardthong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John walks into 221B to find Sherlock doing something he rarely - if ever - does. Merry Christmas Katie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Naptime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gootbuttheichou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gootbuttheichou/gifts).



John closed the door to his flat quietly when he entered, heading straight to the kitchen to put the milk in the fridge – away from the jar of…he didn’t really want to think of what those could be but they looked remarkably like pickled fingernails.  
Sherlock hadn’t called out when he’d entered though. Sherlock always called out when John came home.  
“Sherlock?” the doctor called hesitantly. “Sherlock are you home?”  
But of course Sherlock was home. His scarf was hung up by the door. Sherlock never left 221B without his scarf.  
There was no answer though, so John made his way slowly to the consulting detective’s bedroom. He knocked lightly on the door. No answer. He knocked again, slightly louder this time. Still nothing. Slowly, John opened the door, just a crack, peering through. Unfiltered light shone through the window onto Sherlock’s bed, but John saw no one in it from the angle at which he was looking. So he pushed the door open slightly more.  
Eventually John was standing at the edge of Sherlock’s bed, looking down at the mop of curly brown hair – the only thing visible above the covers.  
“Sherlock are you seriously asleep?”  
The man bolted upright, scrambling a little in his still half-conscious state. When he finally stilled he was sitting up, pale chest gleaming in the mid-afternoon sun. Sherlock looked to John, shielding his eyes from the light. “John? Is that you?” he asked.  
“Of course it’s me. Who else would be in our flat?”  
“Mrs Hudson, of course.”  
“Would Mrs Hudson have come into your bedroom?”  
“How could I know, John? Just because she’s never done so before does not mean she wouldn’t do so. Look at the facts: it’s very possible she would come in to check up on me. Just as you did.”  
“You have enough enemies that I just wanted to make sure you weren’t – you know – dead or anything.”  
“And why would you care if I were dead, John?”  
The way Sherlock’s brow arched, his smirk carefully concealed so that there wasn’t really a smirk there, but so that John knew that there was supposed to be one, made the doctor swallow rather thickly.  
“Because then I wouldn’t be able to pay the rent.”  
There was a beat, and then Sherlock laughed. It was a minimalist sort of laugh. Deep and rumbling: not overly loud but not quiet enough to be condescending. “You raise a good point, John. I suppose I’ll just have to stay alive then.”  
“I suppose you will. If you died and left me to become homeless I don’t think I’d ever forgive you.”  
“I wouldn’t want you to.”  
It was John’s turn to wait a beat. “What does that mean?”  
“Whatever you want it to, Doctor Watson. Whatever you want it to.”


End file.
